


July, 1789

by Other_Pens



Series: Oak Tree Vignettes [2]
Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, F/M, Fluff, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Other_Pens/pseuds/Other_Pens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie only wanted to read her book in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	July, 1789

The gnarled giant of an oak tree stood alone in the field of ripening grain, a fair distance from any sort of building--and even the lines of trees and shrubs which divided field from field and followed the bubbling streams where they slipped between the hills seemed small and far away. In days gone by the tree had marked an old boundary between properties, but the soil was too good to be worked piecemeal or left wild, and eventually a price had been named, the parcel of land made whole, and the field cleared and sown. The oak remained, generations later, still the focus of local lore. Even those who were not particularly superstitious had a healthy affection and respect for the tree, and the mossy earth around its roots was left undisturbed by those who worked the land around it, though every stalk of good grain was precious. Precious, too, were the traditions and ties that held communities together, in those sleepy rural places. The land and its people were bound by their history, and where the black soil could not express itself in any other way than by growing the food that sustained them and the trees which sheltered them, the people could still love the land in return.  
  
This oak, then, was a fanciful sort of thing, but many people thought it the prettiest spot for many miles around--in a place which did not lack for pretty spots, in general. A knotted bit of old rope had been looped about a sturdy lower branch, and the children of the two houses nearest would often climb up into the boughs to play. Despite its lush foliage in the brighter seasons, it wasn't much good for hide-and-seek, however, as it was the first place a seeker ever looked.  
  
Freddie Bexley had arrived on foot just after luncheon had been finished in the nursery at Hillshaw. Little Perry had a summer cold, and while the child was in no danger, there was the usual sort of fussing over the poor boy, and while Frederica longed to nurse him herself, she was merely shooed along and left to her own devices. Her governess knew that with Peregrine unwell, there was no chance of Sir Arthur's dropping by the schoolroom simply to see how his superfluous daughter was coming along, and took the opportunity to 'encourage' her charge to get some fresh air, on account of the fine weather. Freddie had no objection to letting the woman have time for her own leisure, and grabbed _The Expedition of Humphry Clinker_ ; setting off on her walk to the oak tree in her faded blue dress, forgetting her straw hat, and swinging her arms and legs for no reason other than fun as she rambled along.  
  
Soon Freddie was happily situated on her favourite seat, halfway up the tree. The glossy green leaves provided a screen against the hot sunshine, and all around her rose the hearty smell of the warm earth and growing grain. The slow summer hours slid by, marked now and then with the rustle of a turning page, the drone of an insect, or the calling of a bird.  
  
Despite being absorbed in her reading, Freddie's ears soon picked out a sound that was neither book, bee, nor bird--a cheerful sort of whistling, and coming steadily nearer and nearer.  
  
Peering through the branches, Freddie spied a lanky figure walking through the wheat towards the oak, and recognized at once that it must be George Haverleigh. She had suspected he might have come home in the vacation, but hadn't expected she would see him in any games or visits with the other Haverleigh children. After all, George was grown-up--more than any of them. He was going to university and quite leaving his old friends behind.  
  
When Freddie realized George must have the oak in mind for a spot to sit by himself, she let out a horrified gasp and tried to shuffle over to the side of the tree where the rope hung from a branch several feet below her. If she could scramble down and get away, perhaps--but no, he would see her, if she did. Fred found herself thoroughly embarrassed and not at all sure what to do. George Haverleigh clearly wanted to be left alone, if he'd walked out this way with no company, and yet...Freddie had gotten there, first. She let out a groan between her gritted teeth and resigned herself to her awkward fate, curling up as small as possible and trying not to make a sound.  
  
George Haverleigh, meanwhile, had carved his path through the stalks of wheat and stopped whistling long enough to take a bite of the apple he'd brought with him. The rangy youth shrugged off his jacket and flung himself into the mossy nook between two of the gnarled roots, and retrieved a slim pamphlet from the pocket of his coat, propping it open with one hand as he munched on his apple.  
  
Freddie sat very, very still for all of several minutes before she realized that one of her legs was tingling painfully beneath her, and she found that her awkward position could not be maintained for much longer before her limbs would get tired and sore. Slowly and carefully she tried to silently shift her weight and stretch her leg, but, alas! --she had forgotten her book. _Humphry Clinker_ went thumping to the ground, and George sat up like a shot, looking about him in startled bewilderment.  
  
Spying the book on the ground, his brow furrowed, and he glanced upwards through the branches.  
  
"... _Freds_?" he asked incredulously. "...what on earth are you doing up there? Pretending you're an owl?"  
  
"No!" she retorted, furious at herself for being caught out and looking so ridiculous. And in front of George! George, who she liked more than anybody, besides her own brother. George, who spent more time in her girlish daydreams than he, unknowing, had any right to do. "I...dropped my book. I was just reading."  
  
George had scooped up the novel by now and glanced over its worn cover, turning over a few pages and nodding a little to himself.  
  
_What,_ Freddie wondered, _goes on inside boys' heads?_  
  
"But you must have seen me come--you didn't say a word. Were you hiding?" George had some idea of what it was like for the Bexley children, and the sight of the quiet girl sitting among the branches, staring down at him with wide, perplexed eyes, moved him to concern. "...has your father upset you?" he asked, the questioning growing gentle, and without any teasing. Freddie's care-starved soul feasted on that moment, and her heart gave a lurch that felt far too big for her little frame to contain.  
  
"No," she assured him. "I just didn't know what to say. You came here to be by yourself."  
  
"True," said George. "But you know I never mind having company. I just wanted a walk, and everyone at home was busy or felt it was too hot."  
  
"What are _you_ reading?" Frederica had been hungrily eyeing the pamphlet that George had discarded among the roots, and had descended to the lowest branch in an attempt to get a glimpse of its title page. The Bexley's library was extensive, but it was also finite, and not often updated. There was a limit to what reading appealed to an eleven year old girl, and she had not yet the ability or courage to persuade her father to let her join a circulating library. George picked up the little volume and dusted it off against his knee.  
  
" _The Loves of the Plants_ \--it's a poem," he explained. "I picked it up just before I left town."  
  
"Who wrote it?"  
  
"I--" George laughed a little and shrugged. "I don't know. It says only by 'Anonymous'."  
  
"I wonder if Perry would like it--he loves poking around in the garden."  
  
"You can have this copy, if you like," offered George.  
  
Frederica sat up a little straighter, brightening at the prospect of something new to read, only to falter a moment later.  
  
"I haven't any money for it."  
  
" _Money_ for it?" said George, almost hurt by this cool propriety he'd never seen in Freddie Bexley before. "I'll not take a farthing from you! It's a present--now I know I must have missed your last birthday, didn't I? You're twelve, now?"  
  
"Eleven!"  
  
"Eleven, exactly. And eleven is a very important birthday, so of course you must have a present...even if it is a little late." He held up her book and his pamphlet in one hand, and Freddie smiled and went to take them. She could not quite reach, and made a huffy sound of impatience.  
  
"Here, throw--I can catch."  
  
"And fall out of the tree when you do," said George. "Here, you'd better come down--or shall I come up?"  
  
With a boyish grin he grabbed onto the rope and swung from the branch. What had taken the weight of a girl could not quite manage that of a young man, however, and with a sickly snap, the old fibres gave way, and George fell back to earth with a thud.  
  
"George!" shrieked Freddie, genuine terror stabbing at her heart before George managed to draw a hitching breath, staring up through the branches, winded and no doubt bruised, but otherwise unhurt.  
  
"...that was stupid of me," he groaned as he rolled onto his side and staggered back to his feet.  
  
"Yes it was!" agreed Freddie, her worry giving way to relief and vexation. "How am I going to get down, now there's no rope?"  
  
George leaned his back against the tree-trunk and crossed his arms over his chest as he tipped his head back far enough so he could peer up at Freddie.  
  
"I suppose you'll have to live here," he said, with a laugh.  
  
"It's not funny--look, I'll have to jump..."  
  
Freddie rocked forward suddenly, as if she fully meant to do it, and George bolted.  
  
"No, don't--!" he yelled, struck with panic as he envisioned her falling at his feet. Freddie arrested herself with an arm looped about a higher bough, and frowned quizzically down at him.  
  
"I can't just stay up here forever!" she protested. She hadn't been going to jump...not really...now that she considered it, after all, the ground seemed to be rather far away.  
  
"Alright, just--" George took a breath and swallowed heavily as his pulse began to return to a normal pace. "Here, be careful--if you slide down as far as you can and then just let go, I can catch you. Just don't go jumping off."  
  
"Fine."  
  
Frederica moved a little further along the branch, to where it narrowed and dipped nearer the ground, with George following her from below. Freddie hugged the branch and closed her eyes before she let her legs swing to one side and dangle free. Her stomach clenched into a hard knot as she felt her grip beginning to weaken against the weight of her body as it pulled her downward, until George's hand brushed against her ankle.  
  
"Let go, Freds--I've got you."  
  
Squeezing her eyes shut even tighter, Freddie drew one last breath and loosened her hold on the bough--falling in one terrible rush towards the ground that would snap her into several pieces, or mush her into jelly, or...a pair of arms beneath her, catching her as if she were a ripe plum being dropped into the cradle of an outstretched apron. George was laughing at the tense wrinkling of her entire face, and Freddie was safe. He set her back on her feet, and she brushed bits of bark off the skirt of her dress.  
  
" _Now_ I'll take the books," she said with relish, picking them up from where they lay on the ground. "And I should go home--it must be near tea-time."  
  
"Not even a 'thank you for rescuing me'?" said George, feigning injury in his tone, squinting after her as Freddie started off across the field for Hillshaw, passing from the green shade of the tree into the golden haze of sunshine and wheat.  
  
"You broke the rope in the first place, you ninny!" Freddie called back fondly, laughing at him as she skipped off, hugging her novel and the precious poem--doubly dear to her because it had been _his_.  
  
George could only acquiesce with a shrug and a nod at that bit of rationality, but he grinned to himself as he watched her go, waiting until she had disappeared into the trees at the far side of the field before he picked up his coat and headed for home.


End file.
